White Picket Fence
by The Phantom
Summary: One sunny and not-so-special day in August, a young Meriadoc Brandybuck is drafted into painting Bilbo's fence. Oh, what's a tween to do? Pay unintentional homage to Tom Sawyer, of course!


Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within, save the bunch of random Hobbit lads with really dumb names.  
  


Author's Notes: This is an old piece of mine, written late last summer when my twin sister and I were commandeered to paint a bathroom. Being the little sneak that I was, I convinced her to do most of the work, and while the bathroom was getting several new coats of Sunshine Splash Yellow, I decided that I should write her a story as a reward. So this story is for TK the Tenacious, the ever-helpful (if not slightly gullible) painter of bathrooms. Cheers, lass!  
  
With a loving nod to Mark Twain, for the inspiration drawn from 'Tom Sawyer'.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


White Picket Fence  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Life can be so terribly unfair.   
  


This was the sole, one and only thought in the mind of twenty-year old Meriadoc Brandybuck, one sunny and not-so-special day in August. The Shire breeze was warm and inviting, beckoning him out for a swim or a nap in the shade or one of a dozen or so other activities he could be doing right at this exact moment. Why, there were probably a thousand different ways to have fun on a sunny and not-so-special day in August!  
  


But he'd been caught. Trapped. Ambushed. Generally assaulted and kidnapped just as he'd been making his escape out the door.  
  


~  
  


"Oh, it's Bilbo's birthday in a few weeks, you know, Meriadoc!"  
  


Merry stiffened. Mama only used his full name when she really wanted him to do something, and usually something most unpleasant. Without turning back to face her, he said casually over his shoulder.   
  


"Yes, I know, mum. May I go swimming?"  
  


Hurrying the desperately-wanted positive answer, Merry hurried over to the door and flung it open, even getting his right foot down on free soil. But his mother's voice was persistent, and froze him in his tracks.  
  


"I think you should go over and ask if you can do anything to help!"  
  


That was a close one. But this was easy; he could get out of it. After all, what use for a restless tweenager could Bilbo have in making preparations for a party?   
  


"Well, I'll ask, mum, but I don't think..."   
  


"Just go over there and be back in time for supper."  
  


So he'd gone. Full of stupid optimism and brazen confidence he'd gone, like a knight charging into battle with a dragon ten times the size of the Shire. But he of course had no way of knowing the danger; why should he be afraid of a well-meaning (if not rather odd) old Hobbit? Besides, Frodo would be there, and Merry always loved to see his older cousin.   
  
  
  


Along the way, he spotted a pond. Simultaneously, he spotted a patch of good, smooth rocks. And being the sort of young Hobbit who loves throwing things, he absolutely had to stop. Scooping up a great fistful of stones, he hurled them into the water and laughed in satisfaction when they made little splashes. Picking up individual rocks, he tried skipping them. When he failed, he made a face and continued his attempts.  
  


It was precisely this delay that may have gotten him into the scrape in the first place. Because he arrived with such timing that even his mother couldn't have planned. He came running up to Bag End just as Frodo was coming down the walk.   
  


'What luck!' Merry congratulated himself.  
  


However, he failed to notice the large and rather conspicuous item his cousin was carrying, which shows a considerable yet forgivable lack of observation on his part.   
  


"Hullo, Frodo!" he called.   
  


"Hullo, Merry!" the older Hobbit responded. "What brings you up here again? If you're looking for free ale, I'm afraid you'll have to try somewhere else."  
  


"Ha, ha, ha." The tweenager scoffed, slowing to a halt and opening his mouth for his biggest mistake of the day. "Anything I can do to help?"  
  


In retrospect, Merry figured that he probably should have started running when Frodo's face broke into a huge and somewhat ominous smile.   
  


"Why, Merry, you couldn't have come at a better time. I have just the thing for you! How about painting the fence?"  
  


The smile dropped from Merry's face like a leaf from a tree in autumn. No, winter. It fell that fast, that hard, and that absurdly. He just stood there as though he'd been petrified. First of all, his assumptions of there being no work had been shattered. Secondly, his visions of a fun and fancy free August day dissolved right before his eyes.   
  


By now, Frodo had reached the gate, where he deposited his large and rather conspicuous item. It was a can of paint, and Merry kicked himself for not having a keener sense of noticing things. Instead, he stood in the chains of his mother's command, listening in disbelief as Frodo prattled on, walking back to the house.   
  


"Yes, you see, it really does need a new coat of paint, and since we're having all that commotion in a few weeks, Bilbo thought I should come out here and give it one. But now that you're here..."   
  


Frodo's smile turned distinctly evil (in Merry's opinion) as he disappeared into the house. Merry wanted to run, or scream, or knock over the can of paint, spill it all into the grass, and then blame it on a stampeding herd of goats. But no sooner than this clever alibi had popped into his head, Frodo came back out of the hill carrying brushes and pans and everything one could possibly need in painting a fence.  
  


"I've got everything right here, Merry."  
  


He dumped them with the bucket and stood grinning.  
  


"Now, try to give it at least two even coats, and don't get any paint on the grass. Thanks so much, Merry, for volunteering. I'm ever so thankful."  
  


Merry glared icily at Frodo's back, until the Baggins disappeared into the hill and closed the round, green door behind him. The tweenager glanced at the paint. He looked both ways down the road, checking for witnesses. He considered the stampeding herd of goats...  
  


And then he thought of his mother, and how she would skin him alive if he even dared such a trick.   
  


So here he was, on what had started out as such a promising day. Trapped. Ambushed by his own cousin. His own cousin! Of course, he would have done the same to Frodo had the opportunity presented itself, but still. It just wasn't fair.  
  


Stooping down over the large can of paint, Merry went about prying off the lid. This proved to be a lot more difficult than he had expected it to be, and his brow furrowed in anger as his fingers scrabbled for a hold. When this failed, he groped about on the ground until he found a good stick. Jamming this into the little lip of the lid, Merry pressed with all his might.   
  


Snap!  
  


The stick broke into two clean pieces. Tossing it aside in disgust, Merry decided that this would take drastic measures...  
  


Sneaking delicately up the path, Merry circled around Bag End and paused at the kitchen window. It was open. Quick as he dared, he popped up and looked inside. Nobody. So without further ado, he stuck his arm in and reached into the wash basin, surfacing with a sturdy butter knife clutched in his grasp.   
  


It was a giggling and triumphant Brandybuck that scurried back to the paint bucket, squatting down next to it and proudly stuffing his tool into its' position, and then applying all the pressure he could muster. Something creaked. Grinning evilly, Merry finally slammed down on the knife to end this battle.   
  


It had quite a different result than he'd planned. The lid shot off into the air like it had been launched by a firework, whizzing and spinning like a discus as it disappeared over the hill. Merry covered his mouth to prevent the squeak of shock from slipping out. He failed, however, to keep in the yelp of horror when he heard...   
  


"OW!"  
  


"Good gracious..." he breathed. "I've hit someone!"  
  


He briefly wondered if a flying paint can lid could kill a Hobbit. That certainly couldn't be blamed on stampeding goats, and then what would he do?  
  


His relief was immeasurable when Samwise Gamgee came wandering around the bend, his gardening tools tucked under one arm and holding a familiar little disk in his hand. His other hand was rubbing his shoulder uncertainly as he glanced about the area, fearing another attack.   
  


"Hullo, Sam!" Merry called, the relief evident in his voice.   
  


The gardener's eyes finally settled on him, and a look crossed Sam's face that could only be spoken as, "Oh, I should have known it was you and you ought to be ashamed of yourself". However, the Gamgee merely nodded in polite greeting.   
  


"Good morning, sir." He held out the lid. "I believe I've found something of yours..."  
  


"Oh, right." Merry thought for a moment, before deciding to take his usual route of "cheeky upstart". "You can keep it, Sam, I won't be needing it anymore."  
  


Sam gave him a Look before walking over and depositing the lid next to the can, hurrying on into the garden to avoid any other flying objects.   
  


Satisfied that he hadn't mortally wounded anyone with his little missile, Merry rocked back on his heels and studied his equipment. First, he sorted out all the different pans and laid them in the grass. Struggling with the heavy bucket for a while, he screamed girlishly when it began to tip towards the grass...  
  


...paint seemed to slop out the sides in slow motion...  
  


Plop.  
  


Right in the pan.  
  


Blinking for a moment, Merry chalked it down to Brandybuck Luck, and proceeded to fill the rest of the pans. This was rather silly, seeing as he was only one person and needed only one pan. But he liked the sound of the paint splashing and the sight of it cascading out of the bucket. By the time he had finished, ten pans of white paint were scattered about his area.  
  


Of course, with all the excitement of opening the can and pouring the paint now completed, Merry had only one option left.   
  


He had to start painting.   
  


Now this was the part he really hated. Once all the fun of the preparation had flown away, he was stuck to perform the actual chore. It wasn't too late to pull the stampeding herd of goats... But Sam was in the garden. That kind of messy business didn't need any witnesses.   
  


So...  
  


Awkwardly picking up one of the long-handled brushes, Merry slopped it around in one of the pans, idly debating with himself whether he should just run away. But then his mother would kill him, and then Frodo wouldn't let him forget it for days. Rubbish.   
  


And having finally run out of excuses for stalling, Merry began his long and arduous task. Slapping the brush against the fence drearily, he moaned for dramatic emphasis, giggling mentally as Sam gave him an irritated glare. He continued his little show for a while, pausing only for a moment to dip his brush in the paint again.   
  


It so happened that after about fifteen minutes, Frodo meandered out of the house to go to the market. He had a basket on one arm and a list in his opposite hand. When Merry spotted his cousin approaching, he promptly threw himself to the ground and wailed pitifully.   
  


Frodo came up to him and stood over his prone form with a skeptical look.  
  


"And what's gotten to you?"  
  


"It's the heat! The... heat...! I ...can't! Take! It! ...anymore!"  
  


The Baggins was not impressed with the tweenager's over-the-top theatrics, and he only rolled his eyes and continued down the walk and out of sight.   
  


Merry had craned his neck over backwards to watch, and as soon as Frodo disappeared around the corner he hopped back to his feet with an irritated "Rubbish!" and found nothing else but to continue painting.   
  


Enter Peregrin Took, eleven years old, munching on an apple and making his appearance with the same unfortunate timing as his cousin.   
  


"Hullo, Merry! Whatcha doin'?"  
  


"Whatcha doin' yourself." Merry grumbled, annoyed by the boy' cheerfulness. "What are you doing around here anyway?"  
  


"Just walkin' around." Pippin drawled, also taking the "cheeky upstart" route, continuing to babble on about the events of his very uneventful day.   
  


The Brandybuck rolled his eyes and muttered darkly about how Pippin took after him far too much and he should really learn to model himself after someone far less... cheeky. With all the musings on cheekiness and the cleverness that usually comes with it...  
  


...at that moment he thought of a brilliant, creative, wonderful, and above all ingenious plan.  
  


Fortunately for Merry, his prattling cousin failed to observe the sneaky and horrible grin that snuck across his face just then. But he quickly composed himself and began painting with renewed enthusiasm, smiling hugely and laughing for no good reason.   
  


"Why are you laughin', Merry?" Pippin was suddenly curious.   
  


"Oh, no reason." Merry giggled foolishly, perhaps being a bit melodramatic but nonetheless being as convincing as he could. "I'm just so happy! Bilbo has actually let me do the most wonderful thing!"  
  


"What is it?" leaning forward, Pippin rocked on his toes eagerly.   
  


"Painting the fence!" Merry slapped on the hugest grin he'd ever mustered in his life.   
  


"Eh?" The boy was utterly confused.   
  


"Oh yes, it's the most wonderful thing. You can only paint fences every so often, you know, and it's extra-special when you get to paint them white!"  
  


"But Merry, why would you want to work?"  
  


"Work?" The Brandybuck was aghast. "This is certainly not work! It is an honor. An HONOR!"  
  


"It is...?" Pippin was actually considering it.  
  


"But of course! And this fence, this one that Bilbo is actually allowing me to paint, is being painted for nothing other than the big party he's having in September. If this fence wasn't painted with two fresh coats of white, why, the whole event would be a disaster."  
  


Merry nodded his head gravely to emphasize this absolutely vital situation. Pippin's head bobbed up and down in rapt agreement, as he reached reverently for one of the paintbrushes.   
  


"May I... help you... Merry?" His voice quivered with excitement.   
  


Score one for the Brandybuck.   
  


"Ah, but Pip! I don't really want to share it with you! It's my duty, after all..."  
  


"Aw, PLEASE, Merry! PLEEEEEEEEEEASE!"  
  


Rolling his eyes heavenward, the tweenager seemed to seriously ponder this, before shaking his head with a grim frown. Pippin's eyes got huge, and he looked about to give up, before a genius plan occurred to him.   
  


"I'll give you my apple if you let me paint the fence with you!"  
  


Merry raised an eyebrow. This was better than he'd expected it to be. Finally, he grinned.  
  


"Well, Pip, since you're being so generous with me today, I think I will let you help! As a matter of fact... I think I'll take a break and eat the apple, and you can do some of that wondrous fence painting all by yourself!"  
  


A loud "tsk, tsk" sounded from the general vicinity of the garden, but Merry pointedly ignored what was almost definitely Sam's expression of "how dare you take advantage of innocent and gullible children like that".   
  


"Gee, Merry, REALLY?" Pippin threw his arms around his cousin's neck. "You're the BEST!"  
  


Taking the apple, Merry grinned.   
  


"It's the least I can do for my favorite little cousin."   
  


Seizing a paintbrush, the Took vigorously slopped around in a pan, and began painting the fence with an energy that would put a tornado to shame. Merry watched for a while, chomping on the apple, his brain doing a hundred miles an hour. If it was this easy... his keen eyes spotted a Hobbit lad a little ways off.   
  


"Hey, Pip," he mentioned nonchalantly. "Isn't that your friend Milo down there?"  
  


With all the enthusiasm of an eleven-year old, Pippin cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed, "Hey, Milo!"  
  


The lad came trotting over obediently, eyeing the fence, the paint, and the sneaky looking Brandybuck who seemed master of it all.   
  


"Whatcha doin', Pip?"  
  


"I'm..." he paused for dramatic effect. "Painting. The. Fence."  
  


"Woooow." Milo dead panned.   
  


"Really, Milo!" Pippin continued solemnly. "This is a very important fence. If I don't paint it, Bilbo can't have his big party."  
  


"You're joking!" Milo was seriously concerned. No party meant no food, no fireworks. "Can I help?"  
  


"Ah, ah!" Merry stepped in magnificently. "It's my duty to paint it, and a very valuable duty it is. I'm only letting Pippin do some of it because he gave me an apple."  
  


The lad stepped back and raked a hand through his curly red hair. Suddenly, his face lit up like a candle.   
  


"I'll give you my pennywhistle!"   
  


He dug the said item out of his pocket, and Merry took it in his hands, admiring it and "hmm"ing appropriately. Nodding primly, he said,   
  


"It's a deal. Help yourself to a brush."  
  


Eventually, Milo's friend Edgar wandered by. One silver button later, a third lad was working on the fence. Then came Timothy, and a carving knife was added to the stock while a fourth brush was put into work...  
  


~  
  


When Frodo came back from the market, he couldn't believe his eyes.   
  


Over a dozen little Hobbit lads were busily painting the fence, absolutely determined and taking their task most seriously. The coats were even, probably at least three. They worked like clockwork, up and down, side to side, filling and refilling, a perfect painting machine.   
  


And there was the inventor, Merry Brandybuck, reclined in the shade of a nearby tree, sucking on the core of an apple. His pockets were bulging, and he wore a new silver button haphazardly pinned to his yellow vest. He jumped to his feet when Frodo approached and saluted severely.   
  


"Hail, cruel taskmaster!" he barked. Then his pose became a cheeky slouch. "Back from market so soon?"  
  


"I... I..."  
  


Pippin Took came scampering over, a smear of white paint on his face, along with a grin bigger than the Lonely Mountain.   
  


"Wow, Frodo, do you know that Merry actually let me help paint the fence?"  
  


The Baggins turned to raise a stern eyebrow to his tricky cousin.   
  


But Merry was already long gone down the road.   
  


He had at least two hours until supper, and the pond was calling his name.   
  


Just another sunny and not-so-special day in August.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


~ End  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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